


Sunday Morning

by seethesunshine



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:44:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1920288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seethesunshine/pseuds/seethesunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of pinning after a set assistant (still unnamed at this point), Ben finally gets the girl. Sort of. Not without a challenge, even after succeeding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I told you to stop,” she sighed for what seemed like the millionth time. There was no ending when he was on a roll. Fresh off the set of the new season of Sherlock, he wanted nothing more than to rub her the _wrong way_. Exams were quickly approaching and she was in no way ready for them; not with this distraction _every single day_. On most days she’d fight him off, promising to catch a movie or a pint at a later date. She’d never follow through though; she knew the repercussions of being seen with him. _Learned my lesson the hard way_ , she’d argue, her mind quickly working through the number of articles and random pictures she’d seen of herself in the papers.

“Ben, please,” she hissed, swatting his hands away from her tense shoulders. His long fingers _did_ feel nice against her aching muscles, tense from hours of being hunched over various books and papers. He was relentless in his trying, and as flattered as she was – which believe me, she _was_ – she wouldn’t give into him. Not now, at least. Not when her mind was running a mile a minute trying to keep up with all the information she’d have to store for exams. He’d fuck her senseless and she’d end up doodling cocks all over her tests.

“At this rate, you owe me four dinners, two movies and about,” he paused, pretending to count on his long, slender fingers, “twelve rounds of drinks.”  
“Ha- _ha_ ,” she huffed, rolling her hazel eyes at him, perfectly manicured French nails flipping away her over grown bangs, “does that include the numerous orgasm you promise or is that a different tally?”  
“Cheeky,” he grinned, sitting across from her in the deserted library.

With her nose back in her books, he studied her as she studied everything _but him_. Long raven hair that hung about in waves, dangling just above the curve of her breast. Oh, those _beautiful tits_ that he’d spend hours thinking of – and one _can_ think of tits for hours, the shape, the feel, the bounce…you get it – large hazel eyes that constantly rolled with annoyance at him, olive skin littered with freckles – he’ll count them one day, every single one from head to toe and everywhere in between, _he swears_ – strong hands, nails always perfectly groomed. He could stare at her for hours, but he’d love to worship every bit of her instead. Her bare foot rubbed against his leg as she crossed and uncrossed her legs under the table, the soft feel of her skin against his trousers reminding him that she in fact, was wearing a skirt. _Fucks sake_ , he’d combust on the spot if he weren’t in public, just the thought of her supple thighs, the warms skin that adorned them – wouldn’t he love it _adorned around his head_.

“Stop it,” she murmured, not even looking up at him.  
He laughed, a deep sound rumbling in his chest, “I can’t help it. You’re sitting here looking all studious in a barely there skirt and if my dreams are correct, probably no panties.”  
“Benedict!” She warned, casting a playful glare at him.   
“Now if only you’d yell my name like that in a different setting,” he sighed hopelessly.

She shook her head, a frustrated growl escaping her throat – oh what a _perfect_ place to leave lingering kisses – as she slammed her book shut. Pushing it away from her, nearly sliding it off the desk and onto his lap, he bit back a smile. He’s slowly getting closer to his prize. He’d known her for years, practically a decade if not more. They’d met on set of one of his lesser projects, something he probably wasn’t even credited on back in the day. She was the 2 nd assistants assistants assistant. Did you get that? She was the assistant, to the assistant of the assistant. _What a mouthful_ , he joked when they first met, earning him his first ever scowl from her pretty face. She was a few years younger, just a bit shyer of 40 than he. _34 thank you very much_ , she’d probably argue, _but you don’t look a day over 35_ , he’d tease once more, earning him not only a scowl but a very needed smack ‘round the head. But he didn’t mind. In fact, he _waited_ for those moments; hung on every single one of them like they were his last breath.

He coveted after her for years, and when it finally seemed like she’d give into him, she was snatched right up from under his nose. _Righteous bastard_ , that’s what he’d call her ex. The one who dumped her for the younger looking set assistant a year after he’d sunk his teeth into her. But alas, Ben was there to pick up the pieces and since then had refused to give up trying. He’d get her, if only for a night, if only for an hour – but he’d need a bit more than an hour to credit her all the fantastic orgasms he’d promised – even if the world ended.

He knew her reasons for not getting involved; _you’re famous, we’re on different paths, I need to get my Master’s before I’m 40, I don’t want kids, who needs marriage?, you’re like a brother to me_ – the worst of them all ­– _I’d fuck you senseless, really, but I’m afraid to love you._ He’d play them in his head over and over again, time and again, and try to find reasoning behind any of them. But he couldn’t. No, he _wouldn’t_. She propped her chin in her palm, elbow on the desk as she closed her eyes.

“I’m exhausted,” she complained, rubbing her neck, “I could use a good massage.”  
“Well I _was_ trying to give you one,” he countered, running a hand through his dark locks.  
“Right before you tried undressing me,” she laughed, slumping in her seat, “I’ll let you try again but you have to promise no frisky business.”  
“I can’t promise anything.”

She thought for a minute, her jaw jutted out and her eyes narrowed. Without a word, she gathered her hair in a messy top knot on her head, turning in her seat. He sat still for a moment, unsure of how to proceed, until she looked at him, eyes waiting, as she motioned to the seat beside her. Suddenly, he was deflated. Was this finally his chance and there he was freezing up? _You know how nights like these begin_ , she once whispered, frozen and intoxicated on the street corner one winter night, _it’ll just hurt in the end_. He shook his head, taking the seat behind her. He felt her body heat radiate, the hemline of her skirt much shorter than he imagined, her thin camisole the only thing separating his fingers from her skin.

She exhaled loudly when his cool fingers settled on her warm skin, slowly rubbing circles on her shoulder blades with his thumbs. _What he’d do with his thumbs if she’d let him_ , he thought, a stifled laugh escaping him. She shook her head, as if she knew what he was thinking – which, given the circumstances, she probably did – but stayed silent. He worked his nimble fingers up her neck, drumming along the sides and sliding his thumbs down her spine, down to where he skin met the top of her cami. Her body tensed beneath his touch, his fingers lingering on her warm skin before resuming the kneading she’d yearned for.

“Why are you so persistent?” She asked after a while, her voice low.  
He watched her, elbows leaning on his knees as his hands worked around her tense muscles, “because I like you.”  
“Why?”  
“Why not?” He shot back, swallowing the lump that had gathered in his throat, he could only touch her for _so long_.

She shrugged, feeling his palms flatten on her shoulders, his fingers drumming along her collar bones before pulling back and rolling her shoulders back. His touch was firm, but safe. He knew what he was doing and for a second she wonder what his hands would feel like on other parts of her body, the parts he constantly tried getting to. She sighed a little, the prospect of being with Ben, being _sexual_ with him, appealing to her. It would appeal to just about anyone with a brain, but it was the aftermath that pushed her away. She was a private person, keen on getting her life together and finding the one who’d run away with her to the country, have a family and work normal jobs like a lawyer or a shop owner.

“I think you like me, too,” he finally spoke, his voice low, calm.  
She nodded, “Maybe.”  
“Maybe,” he repeated, his fingers working down her back and sliding beneath her camisole, massaging her lower back.  
“Ben,” she almost whispered, gooseflesh rising on her skin.

He ignored her, his touch soft as he worked up and down her back, along her sides, and down her arms. He’d noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra when his hands trailed her back, but he didn’t mention it, _not this time_. Scooting closer, his parted legs on either side of her crossed ones, back to chest, he let his hands wander down her arms once more, slowly gliding down her hands and back up her palms. She relaxed into his touch, her body almost melting into his as his touch got softer, slower.

Taking his chance, he let his almost trembling hands wander to her legs, the exposed flesh drawing not just his touch but his gaze. Her eyes were closed and her head lolled back as he massaged up and down her thighs, slowly testing one boundary at a time, pushing her hemline back _bit by bit_. Her skin, tanned and flushed against his pale skin was alarming, _everything he thought it would be_.

Halfway through trying to rid her of her skirt – cheeky bastard – her head rested on his shoulder, eyes watching his face carefully. _Good god_ was he beautiful, she sighed, watching his pink lips nearly tremble with desire. She knew the mutual attraction had grown over time, she knew she could only shake him for so long before he pounced on her – or vice versa with all the stress she’d been under.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, feeling her gaze, “and you’re brilliant, witty, you really keep me on the edge of my seat with just one look,” he continued, grazing her shoulder with his lips, as if asking permission.   
“I can assure you it’s all a façade,” she laughed lightly, nudging her shoulder to his lips, causing him to smile.  
“You always know what I’m thinking about,” he continued, peppering little kisses along her shoulder, leading to her neck.  
“You’re always thinking of me,” she teased, shifting in her seat, unintentionally rubbing her bum against what felt like a growing erection.  
“And what I’d do to _you_ ,” he added, his hands sliding around her hips, gripping her in place, close to him, where he can almost feel her heart beating.  
“We shouldn’t,” she breathed, his hands sliding down her inner thighs, beneath her skirt.

He sighed behind her, kissing a trail up her neck behind her ear, ignoring her protests of, _stop, we can’t, not now_ , and turning them into _maybe just a little, we can’t get caught_ and _Christ that feels good._ He reveled in her comfort, the soft hum that left her lips as his fingers danced up her stomach, tracing the outline beneath her breast, feeling the heaviness of them before his nails grazed her already erect nipples – was she cold or was it _him?_ – cupping the flesh he’d been day dreaming of for years. She whimpered in his touch, fighting the urge to let her eyes close and let him take control of her.

Her hair now sloppily falling about her, her nails digging into his thighs, she bit the inside of her mouth to keep from moaning. _Those fucking fingers_ , she fumed, she knew they were good for something. She caught herself thinking of how they’d feel stretching her, sliding through what she was sure was pent up arousal, the feel of his calloused fingers in her mouth. He nibbled her ear, taking her lobe between his teeth, his breath warm on her now damp skin, sending shivers down her spine.

“I – we – let’s,” she stammered, her mind and her mouth not working in sync, the feel of his hands sliding around her body intoxicating.

He swallowed her confusion with his lips; _finally_ , he could die happy – but maybe not for a few more hours. Her lips tasted like vanilla lip balm, the sweet smell of cinnamon lingering on her tongue from the gum she obsessively chewed.  His lips worked furiously against hers; trying to make up for lost time almost, as his tongue fought hers for entrance. _Thank heavens the library was deserted,_ she momentarily thought, the excitement of being caught sneaking up on her.

His fingers slid around her thighs, pulling and pinching and kneading the supple flesh he wanted to explore, his body almost aching with desire. He could feel the heat radiating from her arousal, her hips searching for friction as he shamelessly fondled his way about her body. The touch of his index finger along the thin cotton of her panties – which unfortunately she was wearing, unlike in his dreams but he could deal, _for now_ \-  caused her to gasp, giving him _just_ the response he wanted, allowing him to repeat the motion, this time with a bit more force, a bit more _greed_. The dampness of her panties was followed by a thrust of his hips, searching for his own friction of sorts. He circled her entrance through her panties, her teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he pushed his fingers against her.

“Still want to study?” He muttered against her lips, her frazzled expression searing into his memory.  
“Mine or yours?” She asked hurriedly, trying to gather up her belongings as his fingers commenced with their slow torture.  
“Mine,” he breathed, watching her tremble in his grasp.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OFC is named Isabela/Izzy.

_Sunday morning rain is pouring_  
Steal some covers share some skin   
Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable  
You shrink to fit the mold that I am in

The morning sun breaks through the  _pit pat_ of rain, filtering through the closed blinds mercilessly, waking up the raven haired beauty from a fitful sleep. She rustles about the bed, the comforter not  _quite_  as soft as she remembers it being, the bed entirely  _too big_  from what she thought it was. Her eyes open hesitantly, taking in the room that very obviously did not belong to her. A strangled sigh escapes her throat, her hand smacking her forehead, pinching the bridge of her nose.  _What the fuck._

The body beside her shifts slightly, and she holds her breath – is he naked? – praying he doesn’t wake. A shiver runs up her spine at the thought of him bare, beneath the sheets, and slowly brings back memories of the night before. She shuts her eyes, willing away the thoughts – more like previous pleasures - of his hands roaming her body, undressing her with his teeth.  _Good god_ , she cringes, _it finally happened._

It seemed like her mind was playing tricks on her, but she could almost still feel him slowly thrusting in and out of her, leaving wet kisses down her chest. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she remembers the ride back his flat, her skirt hiked up around her waist as he sat her on his lap in the back of the taxi, kissing her feverishly. The elevator ride up was no more innocent as she had already begun undressing him, popping the buttons on his shirt quickly. There wasn’t an inch of skin his hands – or his lips – didn’t cover.

An inhumane noise escaped her throat, a mix of regret and recurring pleasure. Turning her head on the fluffy pillow, she watched his sleeping face. Perfect cheekbones, gorgeous lips – that she wouldn’t mind tasting again, if we’re being honest – and a body she didn’t  _quite_ expect. He was fast asleep, his curls falling in his face with the soft snore escaping him. Reaching out to touch him, the tip of her index finger brushed the side of his face, his pale skin contrasting against hers. He responded to her touch, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he nuzzled closer to the pillow.

After a few seconds of admiration, she had to escape – if she could remember where her clothes were – and get to her flat. She was almost shocked by what happened, cursing herself for finally giving in to him. Slowly, she tried creeping out of bed. His heavy arm draped around her bare waist, his fingers gripping her hip.

"Where are you going?" He mumbled his voice soaked in sultry sleepiness.  
"I have to leave," she croaks, watching him as his eyes open and chills run up her spine, "I have to study."  
"It’s seven am on a Sunday morning, stay a while," he offers, pulling her bare body closer to his, "I’ll make you breakfast."  
She almost chokes on a disgruntled squeal before she speaks, “I can’t, I’m sorry.”  
"Iz," he complains,  "stay."

She swallows the inevitable lump in her throat - she’s dreamed of this moment - and shakes her head. Hesitantly reaching over, she kisses his cheek, his skin flushed from sleep. A large hand encircles her hip and pulls her closer, curious fingers trailing her back.  He kisses her - properly - the way he’s wanted to kiss her every morning and every night for years; his lips possessive over hers, and marvels in the whimper that escapes her.

It’s only when she gets in the cab that she releases the breath she’s been holding in. She doesn’t even realize the severity of the situation until the tension releases from her body as they pull into the busy streets and get buried in traffic. Sitting in the back seat, the wind blowing in through the driver’s window, she closes her eyes, her head resting on the broken leather.

_“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wished to,” he paused, pulling back and looking her in the eyes, “hold you like this.” She doesn’t respond, just attacks his lips once more, thrusting her hips against his, silently begging for more. He kisses her neck, her chest, her face, everything he could get to, to savor the moment. He doesn’t know if it’ll happen again, and in his mind, as he has her pinned beneath him, he’s wishing time could just stop, extend in his favor, so he could have her for a little longer. “Ben,” she whispers, her fingers gripping his arms as she arches her back, nails digging into his flesh. She opens her mouth to speak, but instead, one of his promise orgasm wrecks through her body, sending her into a blissful fit of murmurs and chants._

Her head snaps up as they pull in front of her building, her body on fire. She couldn’t stop replaying the previous night in her head even if she wanted to. She knew it was that good. She knew how he’d felt, and she almost shared the same sentiments. However, she felt nothing but regret and even a little guilt.

After she showers, her damp hair sticking to her exposed neck, wetting the straps of her cami, she makes herself a cup of tea. Staring at it, then glancing at the clock, she swaps it for something a little stronger – to ease the pain, maybe? – and downs the first glass of wine like water. As she refills it, she feels like crying and laughing at the same time. Benedict was, _is_ , marvelous. He knew how to take care of her, he knew her for her and he loved her for that. He’d been so close to expressing his affections last night but she constantly silenced him, kissing away his words in fear of admitting her own. In the middle of downing her second glass – it’s five o’clock somewhere, but only ten am here – her doorbell rings.

Her brows knitted together, knowing full well who it is but she doesn’t have anything to say – for once – and finishes off her glass as the bell rings again. She sighs in frustration, refilling her glass before slowly walking towards the front door. It’s now that she curses herself for moving into a private brownstone with no buzzing door system. Through the peep hole she sees him, dressed down with sunglasses on, his curls sweeping about in the morning sun and the smell of finished rain.

"Just because you left doesn’t make last night any less real, y’know," he says as she opens the door, glass in hand, "is that wine?"  
She nods, “it is.”  
"I couldn’t have been that bad," he jokes as he walks through the foyer, familiar with his surroundings.

At one point she wants to kiss him and choke him at the same time - which could be done - but keeps her hands to herself and settles on her couch with her books in her lap. He watches her, like so many other times, over the rim of his tea cup, her hazel eyes working quickly under his knowing watch. She wants to slap the smirk off his face, tell him to go to hell and blame her wandering mind on him. She wouldn’t even be able to doodle cocks all over her exams because now all she can think of  _is_  his beautiful cock and the fabulous way his hips worked the other night.

"You have half a mind coming here," she muttered, furiously highlighting sentences.   
"Isabela," he sighed.   
Her head snapped up, “don’t call me that.”  
"Izzy," he corrected, "you know I mean no harm. If anything I should be the one sulking over hurt feelings considering you just barely piss all over mine."  
"I do not!" She argued,  "you don’t know how I feel!"  
"That’s because you don’t tell me," he countered.

She wants to yell at him and tell him she’s loved him from before she’s ever met him. She wants to tell him how much she appreciates his kindness and affection and everything he’s done for her. She wants to tell him that being in his arms last night was the safest and most comfortable she’s felt with a man in years but how? How do you give up everything you’ve ever stood for just because someone _literally_  fucked some sense into you.

He watches her as her mind churns and he can practically feel what she’s thinking. She doesn’t want marriage, doesn’t want kids. She wants the freedom to learn and work and travel with no restraints. She’s stubborn and beautiful and witty as hell and she knows that. But she also loves him and of that he’s sure. Even if she does have the strangest way of showing it, last night was all he needed. And maybe he wasn’t the marriage and kids type, after all?  _Maybe not_ , but time can change all sorts of things. He knows how to work around her, even if it does take a while - 10 years if we’re being technical - but he has nothing but time.

"How about we go for breakfast?" He offers, "let’s not discuss last night. What’s meant to be will find its way, no?"  
She frowns for a second then nods, “you’re wonderful, d’you know that? Like, really and truly wonderful.”  
He nods, knowing what comes next, “and you’re a middle aged single woman who doesn’t know what she wants from life and doesn’t deserve someone like me?”

She glares at him, setting her books aside and begrudgingly heading to her bedroom to change.  She knows he won’t give up and he knows she won’t give in, not without a fight.

They sit across from each other in the crowded cafe; she pushes fruit around her plate and he stirs his coffee absentmindedly. She wonders if this would be their Sunday ritual if they’d be together, if they would sit in comfortable silence. She casts a quick glance at him and sees that he’s watching her, a content look on his face, as he studies the curves of her lips, the height of her cheekbones, the way her hair falls in her face and she brushes it away with annoyance. She sighs in confusion as she looks around the cafe; no one has approached them yet. She knows he’s recognized and is aware that the hostess knows him as a regular.  _Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad_ , she thinks, popping a grape in her mouth and watching him as she chews.  He’s gorgeous and charming and my god the effect he has on her is unmistakable.

"See," he starts, scooting his chair closer to her, his hand resting on her denim clad thigh, "I’m not so bad, right?"  
She rolls her eyes beneath furrowed brows, “for now.”

 _That may be all I need_  
In darkness she is all I see  
Come and rest your bones with me  
Driving slow on Sunday morning  
And I never want to leave

**Author's Note:**

> Female OC unnamed still because I couldn’t figure out a name that fit her.


End file.
